He’s set up a stargazing picnic.
“How?” I ask, bewildered.
“MaybeRacquel and Chef Pascal helped.”
I don’t move. Can’t. No one has ever done something so lovely for me before.
“I thought maybe we could…look up.” He rubs the back of his neck. He does that when he’s nervous. “You always liked that.”
I sit slowly, the cold deck softened by thick sheepskin. I hold my hand out to him. “I love a picnic.”
“I know.” His voice is full of emotion as he takes my hand, lets me draw him down next to me.
I’d once told him that my dream date was gazing at the stars.Thenhe’d taken me to the planetarium—now, he’s brought the stars and the planets to me.
“You remembered,” I whisper, touched.
He wraps a blanket around me. “Everything.”
He kneels beside me and holds up the bottle of Montrachet. “Think this is a good place to drink it?”
I nod.
He sets the bottle down with reverence.
He takes his time uncorking it—carefully. After all, the wine is thirty-five years old. Wine this aged is more than what’s in the bottle; it’s a story waiting to be told.
Now, our story of a star-filled picnic is going to be part of the wine’s story.
I watch him, the way his hands move, the way he reads the label again, even though he knows exactly what it says.
When he pours the wine into the glasses, the scent blooms into the crisp night air. Dark cherries, cedar, rich and wild and earthy.
He hands me a glass. Our fingers touch.
I lift it and swirl itverygently. It glistens in the light like garnet. The wine is old; it doesn’t need to be oxygenated.
I take a sip. And forget everything else.
It’s exquisite—velvety and deep. It opens slowly on the tongue, revealing itself with every second.
Blackberry. Tobacco. Violets.
I close my eyes. “God. This is ridiculously gorgeous.”
Ransom is just as star-struck. “Amazing,” he agrees.
We savor the wine, huddled together, surrounded by fur and blankets.
My nose is cold, so I nuzzle it against his neck to warm it.
His breath against my face arouses, heats…makes me feel seen, loved, cared for.
“Winning the wine was a sign, I feel, a way for us to welcomeusback,” he reveals.
I smile at him.
I take another sip. “So. If a 1990 Montrachet is what we share at the start…what on earth are we going to drink to top this?”
